Chapter 23 : 10x returns?

  He said goodbye to them.

  He saw the worry carved into their faces—the questions they couldn’t ask, the fear they wouldn’t speak. He gave them nothing to hold onto. No comfort. No reasons.

  Then he walked away.

  Not toward home.

  The city center swallowed him—noise and light and strangers who knew nothing of his name or what had just been taken from him. He stopped in front of a plain apartment building, the kind people pass every day without noticing.

  Block 1.

  Floor 1.

  Room 03.

  He pressed the bell.

  A moment later, footsteps approached from inside.

  The door opened.

  Lance Whitaker stood there in a simple T-shirt and loose pajama pants, his hair unstyled, his expression caught somewhere between relaxed and puzzled. That puzzlement vanished the instant his eyes landed on Rayan.

  “Rayan—?” His eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing here? And how do you even know where I live?”

  Rayan didn’t answer right away.

  Lance looked at him again, remembering how he had behaved during their first meeting. Slowly, understanding settled in.

  This wasn’t just some kid standing at his door.

  Lance let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

  “…Whatever. You could’ve at least told me you were coming.”

  He stepped aside.

  Rayan walked in.

  The apartment was modest but tidy. Functional. Lived-in. Rayan sat on the living room sofa as if it were his own, his movements calm and deliberate.

  On the side table sat a well-used investment book, its spine creased.

  He picked it up.

  And started reading.

  Lance watched him, irritation creeping in. He lingered nearby, opening his mouth once, twice—waiting for Rayan to say something. Anything.

  Rayan spoke first, eyes still on the page.

  “I got expelled.”

  The words were flat. No emotion. No weight.

  “I’ll be staying here. Every day. At most five days.”

  A pause.

  “My parents can’t find out.”

  Lance answered automatically, still processing.

  “Okay… but next time, just give me some—”

  He stopped mid-sentence.

  “…Wait.” He turned sharply. “What?”

  Rayan finally looked up, meeting Lance’s eyes over the edge of the book.

  “I got expelled.”

  Lance’s voice cracked. “I— I heard you. But why are you so calm? It’s like…” He gestured vaguely. “Like you think they’re going to call you back tomorrow.”

  Rayan’s gaze dropped back to the page.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that will happen.”

  Silence hung between them.

  Lance stared, his thoughts spinning.

  Expelled.

  Without a high school certificate, no university would accept him.

  But, No panic. No fear.

  The kid’s demeanor wasn’t arrogance. It was certainty—and that was unsettling.

  Finally, Lance asked quietly, “What happened?”

  “I broke a guy’s arm,” Rayan said, as casually as if discussing the weather.

  “He came with seven others. They tried to jump on me and my friend.”

  Then, without pausing, he added,

  “You still have the ten thousand dollars I gave you, right?”

  Lance’s mind short-circuited.

  “WHAT?” His voice jumped. “You broke someone’s arm?”

  He hadn’t even registered the question about the money.

  Rayan waited, unfazed.

  “Yeah,” he continued. “His name is George.”

  A short pause.

  “Last name’s Yung.”

  Lance’s jaw went slack. His eyes widened, all color draining from his face.

  Rayan tilted his head slightly. “You have the money, right?”

  Lance snapped back to himself. “Y-Yeah. It’s put aside.” He swallowed. “You know they’re basically the backbone of your school, right?”

  “I know,” Rayan said, his eyes returning to the book.

  “Then why are you this calm?” Lance pressed. “And why are you so sure they’ll let you back in?”

  He hesitated before adding, “You don’t know about the old master of the Yung family.”

  Rayan finally closed the book.

  He looked straight at Lance.

  “Augustus Yung,” he said. “I don’t know him yet.”

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  A pause—measured, deliberate.

  “But things will be different later.”

  Lance stared.

  Then he exhaled a disbelieving, breathy laugh. “Jesus…” He shook his head slowly.

  Then said, “Yeah. I still have the money.”

  He glanced at Rayan again, exasperation mixing with something close to awe.

  “After seeing you like this,” Lance muttered, “how could I even think of touching it without your say-so?”

  Rayan nodded once.Then said ,"Let's talk about the Company."

  Lance nodded.

  Rayan said calmy, “Our investment company should be called the Robalt Group of Investments.”

  Lance blinked, then a faint smirk appeared.

  “Uh… sure. Makes sense. R for Rayan, ‘balt’ for Balthorne.”

  Rayan set the book aside. He had finished it—of course he had. With his focus, anything in front of him yielded in minutes.

  A voice surfaced in his mind—NIRA’s—precise and cold.

  [Unique opportunity detected.]

  [Event-driven price distortion: A sudden external event causes a company’s share price to surge far beyond its normal valuation.]

  [Probability of recurrence: negligible.]

  [Projected upside: 8.7x–12.4x.]

  [Time window: 72 hours.]

  [Cost to unlock full execution data: 1 CP.]

  Rayan’s fingers tightened slightly at his side.

  Once.

  Not again.

  Not later.

  He needed CP—for the expulsion, for the Yungs, for everything tightening around him.

  But this?

  This wasn’t an everyday chance.

  “Do it,” he said.

  [Processing host request…]

  [1 CP spent successfully. Total Remaining CP: 1]

  [Executing: clear data transfer into host mind.]

  The world did not blur or spin.

  In Rayan’s mind, the world realigned.

  Not in images— in certainty.

  Timelines stacked cleanly in his mind.

  Announcements. Filings. Delays. Forced sales. Panic exits.

  Graphs and turning points snapped into place with brutal clarity—when to enter, where the money would pool, exactly when to exit.

  One name burned at the center of it all. 'Virex Dynamics'

  Rayan’s eyes widened slightly as he stared at Lance, absorbing the flood of information.

  Lance noticed the pause, the stillness.

  'Ah. So I guessed the name right', he thought.

  He chuckled and rubbed his nose, pride slipping into his voice.

  “Makes sense. Anyone with my smarts would’ve figured it out.”

  Seeing that rayan’s eyebrows twitched.But, He ignored it.

  Instead, he asked calmly,

  “What are the odds of multiplying our investment by nearly 10x in three days?”

  Lance paused.

  Then laughed—a single, sharp, genuine sound.

  “Ten times?” He shook his head. “In three days?”

  Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said, “Alright. Let’s talk numbers, not fantasies.”

  He tapped the table with a finger.

  “In normal markets—stocks, funds, real businesses—the chance is effectively zero. Not low. Zero.”

  Rayan didn’t react.

  “Even with high-risk tools—options, leverage—the odds of a clean ten-bagger in seventy-two hours are less than 0.1% .”

  Lance offered a thin smile, “And the probability of losing most of the money?”

  He let the number hang in the air.“Above NINETY-FIVE percent.”

  He tilted his head.

  “That risk-to-reward is insane. You’re risking one unit for a one-in-a-thousand shot. That’s not investing—it’s a lottery ticket wearing a chart.”

  Rayan nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Lance leaned back, satisfied.

  'Still a high-school kid', he thought. 'Sharp—but green. I overestimated him.'

  Then Rayan spoke again.

  “Okay,” he said evenly. “Then assume the probability is zero.”

  Lance blinked. “…Assume?”

  “Yes,” Rayan replied. “Assume—unless something breaks.”

  Lance scoffed, reclining again.

  “Markets don’t break, Rayan. They correct. They bleed slowly. They don’t hand out ten-baggers to people who show up unannounced.”

  Rayan didn’t argue.

  He simply looked back and said, “Virex Dynamics.”

  The reaction was instant.

  Lance laughed—loud, sharp, dismissive.

  “Virex?” He shook his head. “That trash biotech shell?”

  He leaned forward, irritation showing.

  “That company runs on rumors and dilution. No real product. No moat. Half its value is hot air. Institutions avoid it like the plague.”

  Rayan didn’t flinch.

  “They’re spinning off their defense AI subsidiary,” he said calmly.

  Lance froze.

  “…That filing was rejected.”

  “Delayed,” Rayan corrected. “Not rejected.”

  The smile vanished from Lance’s face.

  “The delay forces trapped funds to unwind,” Rayan continued, voice steady.

  “Retail panics. The price collapses—before the revised filing drops.”

  Lance stood up slowly.

  “That still doesn’t get you ten times,” he snapped. “Even if the spin-off clears, best case is double. Maybe triple.”

  Rayan met his eyes.

  “Unless the subsidiary isn’t priced as biotech.”

  Silence.

  “It’s being repriced as defense infrastructure,” Rayan added quietly.

  “Different multiples. Different buyers.”

  Lance’s jaw tightened.

  “You’re saying the market mislabeled the asset,” he said slowly,

  “and it’ll correct itself in three days?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  Rayan nodded once.

  “No hype. No long-term hold. We enter before the correction becomes public knowledge.”

  A pause.

  “We exit the moment it becomes obvious.”

  Lance stared at him, searching for doubt.

  “If you’re wrong,” he said finally, voice low, “this makes you look delusional.”

  Rayan didn’t smile.

  “If it doesn’t exceed ten times in three days,” he said calmly, “I won’t bring you another idea. Ever.”

  The words didn’t sound like a challenge.

  They sounded like a verdict already reached.

  Lance exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the desk.

  “And if it does?” he asked.

  Rayan didn’t look away. He didn’t posture. He simply held Lance’s gaze.

  “Then you’ll follow my instructions without asking questions.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  No dramatic moves. No raised voices.

  Just the weight of what had been said, settling into the room.

  Lance leaned back slowly, studying him—not as a kid, not even as a prodigy.

  As a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

  “Alright,” Lance said at last. “You’ve named the play. Now explain it like I’m not supposed to believe you.”

  Rayan nodded once.

  “Good,” he said. “Because belief isn’t required.”

  He reached for the notepad again—but this time, he didn’t write formulas.

  He drew a single line.

  “This isn’t a growth play,” Rayan said. “It’s a timing failure.”

  Lance frowned.

  “Explain.”

  “Virex isn’t moving because of value,” Rayan continued. “It’s moving because funds are forced to act in the wrong order.”

  He tapped the left side of the line.

  “First mistake: regulatory delay. Institutions freeze. They can’t add exposure.”

  He tapped the middle.

  “Second mistake: retail panic. The price drops faster than the fundamentals justify.”

  Then the right side.

  “Third mistake: reclassification. Defense buyers step in—but only after confirmation.”

  Lance’s eyes narrowed.

  “So the window is—”

  “Between panic and permission,” Rayan finished. “Three days where nobody wants to touch it—but everyone will want to explain it later.”

  Lance went still.

  “That’s why it spikes,” he said quietly. “Not because it’s good. Because it’s misread.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the ten times?” Lance asked.

  Rayan’s voice didn’t change.

  “That happens because nobody prices in urgency.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “When the correction starts, it won’t climb. It will jump. Funds won’t ease in—they’ll rush.”

  Lance let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  “…And all we do,” he said slowly, “is stand where they’re about to trip.”

  Rayan nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  Lance laughed once—low, disbelieving.

  “It’s simple,” he said.

  “Yes,” Rayan agreed. “That’s why it works.”

  Another silence.

  This one felt different.

  Lance looked at him again, really looked.

  He exhaled.

  Realization hit him

  'I didn’t overestimate him,'

  'I misunderstood him.'

  Rayan had already turned slightly toward the couch.

  “I’ll sleep for a few hours,” he said.

  Lance blinked.

  “…You’re sleeping?”

  “Yes.”

  “After saying all that?”

  Rayan paused, then glanced back.

  “The market doesn’t care if I’m awake,” he said. “And the plan doesn’t change because of nerves.”

  He lay down, closing his eyes as if it were any other night.

  Lance remained standing, staring at the notepad.

  Once in a decade, he thought.

  No.

  Once in a lifetime.

  And somehow, a boy who’d been expelled that morning had just explained the market better than anyone Lance had ever worked with.

  In the city center, a building stood above the skyline like a blade of glass.

  Forty-two floors of steel, silence, and money that never raised its voice.

  On the thirty-eighth floor, a man sat alone behind a wide desk of dark wood. His jacket was perfectly pressed, his tie loosened just enough to suggest the hour—not fatigue. Early thirties. Unmarried.

  The kind of man who didn’t need to rush because the world already moved around him.

  His name was Marcus Hale.

  A report lay open before him.

  Not financial. Not corporate.

  A school incident.

  George Yung — fractured forearm.

  Cause: physical altercation.

  Other party: Rayan Balthorne.

  Marcus’s eyes paused on the name.

  'Balthorne.'

  For a moment, the city outside ceased to exist.

  Instead, he remembered a quiet roadside. His car with a shredded tire.

  And a boy.

  Young. Calm. Focused.

  No fear in his eyes. No hesitation in his movements.

  Marcus remembered offering a favor in return.

  The boy had simply shaken his head and said, 'Nothing right now.' 'Just remember it.'

  Not pride. Not arrogance.

  Certainty.

  Marcus had found that… amusing.

  Now, he looked back at the file.

  A fractured arm.

  A Yung.

  And that same name.

  Slowly, Marcus closed the folder.

  He stood, straightening his cuffs as he walked to the window.

  Below him, the city pulsed—unaware, undisturbed.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “Interesting,” he said quietly.

  And somewhere far below, the board was already shifting.

  End of Chapter 23.

  PATREON.